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Man, if you were lookin' for the Big Time you were an idiot to begin with, either gone half dumb with experience or born rock stupid, but it didn't fuckin' matter, not here anyway, not here in The Shit, where the Big Time skipped town, elbowed past some tourists and squeezed onto the F train, snagged a seat next to a Chinese grandma with two plastic bags full of bok choy and toothpaste, and beat it. Yeah, brother. It's just you, your guts and The Brand up here. You'd better believe it.
The grunts up on 40 wore it all over their faces like cafeteria mustard smeared across monkey smiles, fucked half dead by the ennui, the creeping malaise pooling their asses around the cushions of their ergonomic chairs, the fluorescence sucking the blood from their cheeks, softening their sight. The Cube Hypnosis. Better watch out for that bad mama. She'll sing you complacent, steal your breath, ruin you before you know what hit you. Tomorrow you'll wake up at the retirement lunch with your name iced across a cake.
Grunts clicking their mice in that sick, clittery rhythm, keystroke after keystroke setting their wrist tendons on fire. This god damn machine'll chew you up if you're not careful. That's what I would have said to this freshmeat now if I could recall what it was to give a damn, if I didn't think maybe that's why he'd come, anyhow, like half of them do, to be chewed.
"Have you been on the set of TRL? Oh, I bet it's a thrill!"
I dropped my KCA 2003 notepad, sucked the recirculated, filtered air through my teeth, let the taste of sweat on a battery coat the tongue I now fought to hold. Thrill? Sad, sorry son of a bitch. He'd be indexing the tape library by morning.
Date Written: February 16, 2004
Author: Dick Vomit
Average Vote: 3.8